


I believe in second chances

by CocotteJenn



Series: Second Chances Main Story [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alistair is a bit of an ass but he'll get better, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bar Fight, Depression, Drunk Alistair, Drunkenness, F/M, Family Feels, Fantastic Racism, Flashbacks, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hangover, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Most of the Kirkwall gang will make minor appearances throughout this fic, Pain, Past Abuse, Pining, Recovery, Single Parents, Surana (Dragon Age) is not a Warden, as well as other NPCs, mild violence, unsolicited advice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2019-10-10 08:52:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17422757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CocotteJenn/pseuds/CocotteJenn
Summary: Disgraced, shamed, branded a traitor and exiled from his homeland, Alistair decides to drink his life away in Kirkwall. There, he meets Surana, a runaway mage and single mother who just wants to help him move forward.(tags to be updated as I post new chapters)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Due to popular demand (yes, four people is popular enough), I decided to expand on [Nice to meet you again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17189102) with a long fic. I strongly advise you to read the one-shot before jumping into this fic because I will reference it on occasion.
> 
> Enjoy chapter 1, in which Alistair is a bit of an asshole, but don't worry, he'll get better :)

**DENERIM, THREE YEARS AGO.**

“I have no place here any longer. Not in Ferelden. Not with the Grey Wardens. Not by you.”

The disgust in Alistair’s voice as he turned his back on Amell was palpable. Looking back, he should have seen it coming. Of course, the man sleeping with Morrigan would decide to spare that traitor! And it wasn’t the first time he had played the all-forgiving judge either! He had let the blood mage, Jowan, go free after witnessing the horrors happening in Redcliffe. Alistair hadn’t said anything at the time. Amell had known Jowan almost his entire life, there was no-one better suited to make this decision. Then there had been the girl in Kinloch Hold whom, for all he knew, could have very well been a blood mage too. And long before all that, he had freed Sten without batting an eyelash, fully aware of the reasons behind his imprisonment. The Qunari had turned out to be a worthy ally, one Alistair had valued greatly, but it should have tipped him off. Their friendship had blinded him to the truth: Amell was a stupid, selfish man.

No less than five guards were escorting Alistair to the docks. He would have gone on his own, but Anora - sorry,  _ the Queen _ \- wanted to make sure he left her kingdom for good. He half expected one of them to stab him in the back or cut his head off before they even reached their intended destination. She wanted him dead, there was no getting around that. The only reason his head hadn’t rolled on the palace floor was because Amell had stepped in. Maybe he had felt sorry? Maybe there had been a sliver of friendship left in him? Alistair couldn’t tell, nor did he care anymore. It was over, all of it. He had never had any desire to become king, anyway. But being a warden? That he would miss most of all.  _ Not if this is what the order stands for, I sure won’t miss it! _

The guards shoved him onto a boat setting sail towards the Free Marches. Alistair spent a week in the cargo hold, drinking and puking. The ship captain almost threw him overboard when he found the mess Alistair had made of it. Instead, the disgraced prince was thrown on the streets of Kirkwall with only a few coins in his pockets. Less than an hour later, he had found his way to the nearest tavern and lost what little money he had left.

 

**KIRKWALL, NOW.**

The Hanged Man was one of the least dirty tavern in Lowtown. Considering no-one had ever bothered to clean up the blood stains on the floor after the last bar fight, that said something. But it didn’t matter, not to Alistair. He was there for the ale, not the view, nor the smell. Sitting down in a corner, he started pouring an almost endless stream of the bitter drink down his throat. The taste was bad, but the damn thing was strong and cheap, exactly what he needed.

“It’s nine in the morning. Perhaps you should save some of it for later?” a displeased voice rang behind him.

It was that waitress. Ana.  _ Must be Tuesday. _ She was behind the bar, scrubbing glasses and glaring at him. Alistair turned his attention back to his drink. He didn’t have time for intrusive waitresses. Although one could say he had nothing but time on his hands, sitting there all day long.

“Nobody asked for your opinion,” he said coldly as he took another long sip of his ale.

The woman had the good sense not to insist. She didn’t understand him. She  _ couldn’t _ understand him. How could she? She wasn’t broken. She had everything to be happy. She had a home, a job, and a sweet daughter. He, on the other hand, was a shell of a human being, a fact he was well aware of. He had lost everything that ever mattered to him. He had no friend, no family, no purpose. The wonderful amber liquid was all he had left, and frankly, all he needed. It filled the emptiness inside of him. It made him feel something. It made him feel real again. And eventually, it made him forget. For a few precious hours, he would forget about everything else. Amell, Loghain, Anora, all of Ferelden… Even the Grey Wardens and their stupid taint would become a blur.

Unfortunately for him, Alistair had developed a resistance to alcohol over the past few years. A consequence of his intensive training, he thought. Or perhaps was it a side effect of the Joining? It didn’t matter, though. All that mattered was that he needed to drink more than the average man before he started to feel the buzz. A minor inconvenience that quickly became an annoyance when his purse started to feel light. Hopefully, tomorrow's work opportunity would pan out.

Alistair emptied his drink fast, faster than he should have. What time was it anyway? Noon? No, there weren't enough people in the tavern for it to be noon, but his stomach was gurgling. He raised his hand to call for a waitress. Ana walked up to him almost reluctantly. He ordered another pitcher of cheap ale and asked for the menu.

“We’ve got stew and some leftover porridge from breakfast.”

“What meat is the stew?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It's mystery meat.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Alistair was starting to find her annoying. How could she not know what they were serving? She worked here, didn't she? “Can’t you ask the cook?”

“Nobody knows what’s in there. That’s why it’s called ‘mystery meat’.”

“Norah always knows what meat the cook is using.”

“Norah lies to you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the cook just adds whatever he can scrape to yesterday’s stew.”

_ Eww. _ “You can't be serious.”

“What did you expect? This is the Hanged Man, not the Café d’Or. If you want high-quality meals, you should go to Hightown. I know the Blooming Rose serves a succulent broth.”

Alistair might have laughed were he not so irritated. “They serve broth at the brothel? Yeah, right.”

“They do. I work there on weekends.”

“You work at the Blooming Rose?” He could feel his face turning a bright shade of pink at the thought.

She shrugged. “The pay is better, the place is cleaner, and it's not that different from working here anyway,” she explained, oblivious to his discomfort. “A shame they've already got other waitresses working full-time. The only reason they even hired me is because weekends attract bigger crowds. Someone has to take care of all these fine people when they're not doing their business.” An amused smile spread across her lips. “So, what will it be? Stew or porridge?”

Alistair emptied his small purse on the table to count his coins. He grimaced. He didn't have a lot of money left, maybe not enough to pay for either dish. If it came to choosing between a meal or the ale… well, his choice was already made.

“I think I'll just skip lunch.”

Ana gave him a sad, sorry smile before leaving. She came back two minutes later with a full pitcher of ale and the tiniest bowl of stew he had ever seen. Barely a child's portion. Alistair wasn't certain it would be enough to satisfy his warden appetite but at this point, he could quite literally not afford to be picky.

He mumbled a small “Thank you” and poured himself a cup of ale. The stew looked like a bronto had crapped in the pot, and it didn't taste any better. The meat was overcooked and chewy. Ana was right. If he concentrated a little, he could recognize a few of the different ones they had used. Pork, chicken, maybe a nug or two, and likely not the good parts of the animals. The sauce was too rich and heavy as if the cook had thrown an entire jar of spice in an attempt to cover the rancid flavour. A pointless effort. The tavern's food had never tasted good in the three years he had been in Kirkwall. 

Ana fidgeted on her feet, unwilling to leave him alone. “Forgive me if I'm overstepping some boundaries, but if I may give you some advice.”

“It seems like you're going to give it regardless of what my answer would be.”

She bit on her lower lip, hesitating. “You shouldn't let what happened to you define you,” she finally told him. “You shouldn't let it ruin your entire life.”

“You're right,” he answered in a surprisingly calm voice. He clenched his fist around his spoon and glare at her. “You're overstepping.”

“You can still start over,” she continued, completely disregarding his previous comment.

He took another swig of ale and gave her a dark look. “Easy for you to say. You're not the one who was branded a traitor and thrown into exile.”

She snorted. She had the gall to laugh at his misery. The more time he spent with this woman, the more she was getting on his nerves. 

“You’re kidding, right?” she said. “Or did you forget about the part where the Chantry hunts people like me down to put them in cages for the rest of their lives?”

She apparently didn't care about being overheard. Not that there were a lot of people who could be listening to their conversation anyway. Tuesday mornings were never swamped. Only a handful of regulars like him nursing last night's hangover. 

“I know it’s not comparable,” she added, her eyes softening with a sorry frown. “But you can be happy again. You just have to want it.”

“Well, I'm sorry we can't all be perfect little rainbows of happiness.”

Her face tightened. Her brows drew together in a deep scowl, lighting her eyes with anger.  _ Finally, _ he thought. He was getting sick of her self-righteous attitude. Her pity was the last thing he needed right now.

“You know, just because I spent my whole life imprisoned, doesn’t mean I didn’t have actual dreams.” She slammed her fists on the table. Alistair felt the air around him getting hotter. His templar training kicked in.  _ Mages are a danger unto themselves and unto others. _ Ana didn’t weight more than ninety pounds, but she was more terrifying than the darkspawn horde, or so the Chantry would have you believe. “And guess what! Serving ale to drunk assholes and cleaning up after them isn’t where I thought I would end up. Yet here I am, making the best of a shitty situation.” 

The conversations around them dimmed down. Alistair could feel every eyes on him. Some out of curiosity, but most seemed ready to jump to the poor waitress’ rescue if he so much as lifted a finger on her. It would be so easy. He had the ability to cut down the flow of mana coursing through her veins. He could dispel anything she might throw at him. But he wouldn’t use it. If anything, he realized, he probably deserved an arse-kicking more than she did.

“You need any help there, Stardust?” a dwarf intervened, his hand casually resting on the crossbow sitting at his side.

“No, we're done,” she replied behind gritted teeth as she started to walk away.

“I'm sorry,” Alistair sighed. “I didn't mean to suggest you had an easy life.”

She stopped and gave him a cursory glance. “Look, I get that it's difficult, but you can't possibly want to spend the rest of your life wallowing in self-pity. The world is big, you can still find your place in it, even if it's not the one you were hoping for.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You’ll figure it out. I'm sure there's more to you than being a disgraced Warden-Prince.”

Thankfully, Ana let him drink in peace for the rest of the day. He couldn't stop thinking about her, though, about what she had said. Her words were ingrained in his head. She did have a point. If he wanted his life to change, he had to be the one making the first step in that direction. But he didn't care anymore. He didn’t  _ want _ to be happy. He didn’t  _ deserve _ it. 

Before he knew it, the blasted pitcher was empty again. The Hanged Man desperately needed to upgrade to larger ones. Alistair raised a shaking hand to order more of the magical drink. His head swirled when he turned around to look for Ana's freckled face in the crowd. Where did all these people come from? When did they arrive? He finally found her chatting happily with a group of people playing an animated game of Wicked Grace.

“Gemme a drink,” Alistair yelled out.

Ana raised her head to give him a disapproving frown. “I think you've had enough already, Alistair.”

“I think yooouuu've had enooouuugh, Aritlair,” he mocked her.

“You need to leave.”

There it was, the breaking point. Somehow, Alistair doubted she would offer to take him back to her home again tonight. She walked up to his table, accompanied by one of the card players. A mountain of muscles she had likely chosen as an intimidation technique. His sole purpose was to make Alistair think he would use brute force to throw him out on the street. But it wasn't going to work, he'd seen it before. 

_ Wait a minute! _ It was that prick, Amell! What was  _ he _ doing here? Alistair almost punched him before realizing it couldn't actually be him. The man was too broad and his complexion too light to be the mighty Hero. 

“I can rent a bed for the poor fellow,” he told Ana with compassion - or pity, take your pick.

“Who're you?” Alistair managed to mumble.

“Your new best friend.”

He snorted. “I had a bess friend once. It suuuucked.” Alistair was certain he had seen this man before, hanging around the tavern. But his name currently escaped him. “You do look like ‘im, though. Imma punch you.”

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” Ana warned him.

One second, Alistair was valiantly throwing a punch, the next, his face was falling flat against the ground. He had only missed the man by an inch! All right, maybe more than an inch.

“It's not fair,” he moaned, his nose still stuck to the dirty floor.

“Come on buddy, let me take you upstairs.”

“Ah can walk.” 

Alistair got up on his knees and carefully rose to his feet. The world started spinning around him. He swayed and lost his balance, falling to the ground. Again. With the stranger’s help, Ana brought him back to his feet. She smelled nice, of elfroot and jasmine. It was calming, like a mother’s embrace. Not that he knew what that felt like. 

They dragged him up the stairs and threw him down on a cot. Ana's pretty voice was the last thing he heard before falling into a deep sleep. “Thank you,” she told not-Amell. “I’m sorry about this. I’ll find a way to repay you, I promise.”

Alistair awoke the next morning - or perhaps afternoon, hard to tell in this dump - surprised to find the comfort of an actual roof over his head. He felt like a druffalo was dancing the remigold all over his brain. He sat up on the bed, his eyes slowly adjusting to the blinding light. There were a small vial filled with a red liquid, a pouch of herbs and a quickly scribbled note on the nightstand. _Potion for the headache, tea for the guts_ , it said in the beautiful cursive handwriting of a scholar. 

As much as he tried, he could barely remember anything from the day before, much less the night. A few flashes here and there, but nothing more. It wasn't hard to figure out who to thank, however. The potion appeared to be the same one Ana had prepared for him after she had picked him up from the streets of Lowtown a few weeks ago. Who else in this cursed city would help a poor idiot like him anyway?

He swallowed the potion and rose from his bed. His head still ached a little, but the remedy worked fast. He walked up to an old broken mirror precariously standing on an equally old wooden crate. A stranger stared back at him with clouded, puffy, brown eyes, underlined with deep, dark circles. His face needed a good scrub. And a good shave. His unkempt greasy hair made him look like a wild dog, one that would need to be put down more out of mercy than fear. 

There was a barrel of water sitting in a corner. Other patrons sharing the room had likely used it before him. Alistair gave it a close inspection and came to the conclusion that it was clean enough. Cleaner than him, at the very least, and no one had puked in it. He splashed the cold water over his face and wiped it with a rag. Not ideal, but he wasn't planning on courting ladies any time soon.

His stomach was screaming for something to eat, but he knew he couldn't afford any more food. Or even ale. Not until he earned some coin.  _ Shit!  _ What time was it? He was supposed to meet with a group of mercenaries at dawn! Judging by the warm light spilling through the windows, he had clearly missed the appointment. With any luck, they might have forgotten about him.  _ Yeah, right… _ As if he ever had any luck before… 

Alistair rushed down the stairs only to come face to face with three armoured men. The mercs he had promised to help.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” one of them sneered as the other two circled around Alistair, cornering him.

_ Shit, shit, shit. _ They hadn’t forgotten about him, apparently.

“If it isn't the Fereldan trash who stood us up this morning,” another one spat. “Do you have any idea what your absence cost us,  _ Your Majesty? _ ”

The title made Alistair cringe. They were mocking him, but there had been a time when he could have been king. He had never wanted the throne, but he would have done anything to make sure the man responsible for Ostagar's bloodbath got what was coming to him. It didn't matter that Loghain had died in the end, that he had “heroically” sacrificed his life for Ferelden. Duncan deserved better.

“Let me guess, your dashing good looks?” he quipped.

They laughed, and for half a second, Alistair thought he might get away with it. Then the first blow landed in his stomach. He doubled over in pain, his breath cut short. Fists struck his face repeatedly until he fell to the floor. He tried to fight back, but he was tired, hungry, and outmatched. His movements were slow and sluggish, uncoordinated. _How pathetic,_ a little voice whispered in his head. There was a time, not so long ago, when he could have taken all three of them without breaking a sweat. He had killed an ogre, for the Maker’s sake! He had stood toe to toe against a high dragon! A couple of low life thugs should have been easy. Yet here he was, bloodied and battered, barely able to move. The goons kept hitting until their knuckles were painted red with his blood.

One of them spat on his face. “That should teach ‘im.”

He heard the sounds of footsteps walking away from him and the front door being slammed. But he remained there, lying on the ground, clutching at his knees. He didn't dare move until he was sure the men had all left the tavern. 

“Andraste’s tits! What happened down here?”

A pair of firm arms grabbed his shoulders and helped him up. It was that dwarf, the one who had come to Ana's rescue, the one who lived here and seemed to know everyone in the city.

“No offense, kid, but you look like shit.”

“I'm fine.” Alistair hissed, the pain in his chest increasing with each word.

“Listen, I've got a friend in Darktown. He's a healer, he can help,” the dwarf offered. “Here, let me get you to him.”

“I don't need your help.” He pushed the man away and went back to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If chapter one could be summed up as "a day in the life of Alistair" then this one is "a day in the life of Surana".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little longer than what I expected, but I just couldn' t keep myself from adding and adding stuff to it ^^  
> Anyway, I hope you guys like it!

Neriah was already sleeping soundly when Ana went home. Her shift at the Hanged Man had been rather uneventful - if you could call spilt drinks and drunk men trying to grab her arse uneventful. She hated being away from her daughter for so long, barely spending any time with her at all, but it was her duty as a mother to make sure she lacked for little. Sadly, that meant working long hours dealing with drunkards in order to put some food on the table.

Merrill jumped up at the sound of the creaking door. “Oh, I'm so sorry. I fell asleep.”

“It’s all right, it's pretty late. Sorry to wake you,” Ana whispered. “How did it go?”

A bright smile appeared on the other woman's face. “She's such a sweetheart. Always asking questions about Dalish culture.”

“She's always been a very curious child.”

“It's a good thing. This is still part of her heritage, even if she doesn't look elvhen.”

That detail had never really hit her before. Not that Ana had forgotten that she was an elf - humans often took a sick pleasure in putting her back in her place. But she had been raised in a very Andrastian environment ever since she was born. As disappointing as it was, she had to admit she knew very little of her elven roots. Maybe she should ask Merrill to teach her a few things too when they had more time to spare.

“Thank you, Merrill, for everything.”

“You're very welcome.”

“You look tired. I shouldn't keep you from your own bed.”

She nodded politely. “I'll see you soon, lethallan,” she said before walking through the door.

Neriah rolled over in her sleep. Ana wondered what she might be dreaming of. She thought about her own childhood, growing up in the Circle, surrounded by templars watching her every move. Templars when she ate, templars when she slept, templars when she bathed, templars when she pissed. Mages found ways to protect their privacy, of course. Carroll could be bribed with cake, Bran with lyrium if you managed to get your hands on a dose, and Cullen… All she had to do was bat her eyelashes and he'd be wrapped around her little finger. She wasn't proud of it. He had been nice to her, nicer than the other templars anyway. And if it weren't for his devotion to the Chantry, she might even have considered him a friend. But all that was years ago. Before abominations ran rampant around the tower. Before she fled the Circle. Before she came to Kirkwall and adopted Neriah.

_ Sweet Neriah… _ Ana hoped her daughter would never have to face the same struggles. That was what they all fought for, in the Mage Underground. A world where their children would be allowed to have a normal life. Allowed to grow up, to be free, to be safe. A world where they could have dreams. A world where they could love without restreint.

Yawning in silence so as not to wake up her daughter, Ana slowly slipped into a nightgown and lied down on the small cot by the fireplace. The blasted thing was almost as uncomfortable as sleeping on the cold hard floor. Maker, she couldn’t wait to sleep in a real bed again. That was probably the only thing she missed from the Circle. Except perhaps for the extensive library. Yes, she missed those dusty old books the most, she mused as she very slowly drifted off to sleep.

She awakened the next morning to the sounds of drawers being opened and shut. Neriah was up, rummaging through her clothes, searching for something in the dresser. Rubbing her eyes, Ana made her discomfort known with a long groan. She felt has tired as she did before going to bed. How long had she slept? Definitely not enough, she thought as she got to her feet. Still half asleep, she kissed the top of her daughter's head and tousled her hair. Her giggles filled Ana with a familiar sense of warmth and happiness. 

“What are you looking for, snowbird?”

“My blue dress.”

“It's still in the laundry basket after your last mudscapade,” she sighed. “I haven't had time to wash it yet, sorry.”

“Oh.” Neriah closed the drawer slowly, disappointment washing over her face.

Ana felt a pang of guilt for having forgotten about that dress. It had almost been a week since she had promised to clean it. “In the meantime, why don't you wear the pink one? It's cute.”

She pouted. “I wanted to wear the blue one.”

“I'll do it soon, I swear.”

They sat down together at the table to eat some leftover porridge Ana had sneaked out of the Hanged Man. It was cold and gooey and probably one of the least appetizing breakfasts she could ever think of, but for today, it would have to do.

“Can I play with Eryn this afternoon?” Neriah asked her mother, taking a spoonful of the disgusting stuff. “Promise we won’t get into trouble.”

“If her parents agree, I don’t see why not.”

“Great! Thank you!” She jumped up in excitement before sitting back down on her chair to finish her bowl of porridge.

“I’ll be at the clinic with your uncle all afternoon. If anything happens-”

“I find Merrill or Arianni, I know.” She rolled her eyes in that sweet, innocent way only a child could. _Sweet and carefree little Riah._

“Speaking of Merrill. She told me she's been teaching you about Dalish culture.”

Neriah beamed and said proudly, “I've been learning about the gods! Do you know anything about them?”

“Not much, I'm afraid.”

In truth, Ana had read the small handful of books about elven history she could find in the Circle library. Most of these books - if not all - had been written by Chantry scholars, however, and she suspected them to be full of horseshit.

Neriah proceeded to list all nine gods and their attributes. She told her the myth of Sylaise, the Hearthkeeper, giving the elves fire and teaching them how to spin the fibres of plants into thread and rope.

“And she showed them how to heal with magic and herbs like you and uncle Anders do!”

“That's great, snowbird,” Ana told her. “What about your other lessons?”

The elders in the Alienage were trying to give the children some basic knowledge such as reading and counting. But, much like her own tutors in the Circle, these old men and women bore the children to tears. Neriah, eight years old and full of unending energy, did not like those lessons. Ana couldn't blame her. At her age, she too preferred reading about the heroic tales of mighty Grey Wardens soaring through the sky on their magnificent griffons to solving boring math problems.

“If I give you a silver to buy elfroot and it costs fifty coppers, how much money should you bring home?”

Neriah groaned in frustration. “One silver is a hundred coppers, right?” Ana nodded and let her think. “Fifty coppers?”

“Good. Now, what if I allow you to buy some candied nuts? Let's say each portion costs twenty coppers. How many can you buy?”

Her small face twisted up in concentration. She closed her hands into small fists, raising her fingers one at a time as she slowly counted. “Three? No, two! One for me and one for you!”

“Nicely done! You see, math is useful!”

“Just because it's useful doesn't mean I have to like it.” She crossed her arms over her chest, pouting some more.

Ana couldn't contain the smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “If you study a little today, maybe I’ll bring back something sweet for you tonight.”

She wasn’t sure she could afford it, but one small indulgence had never hurt anyone.

“Can I practice my writing instead? Please, please, please!”

Ana sighed. “If you promise to work on your math problems afterwards.”

“Ugh! Fine.”

Neriah picked up a book from the shelf, a heavy tome about the history of the Fourth Blight. She always picked that book. That was the reason why she could spell  _ ‘griffon’ _ perfectly but still had troubles with  _ ‘potato’ _ or  _ ‘summer’_.  They had other books, some perhaps more suited for children learning how to read and write, but Neriah loved this one. There was something fascinating about these tales of heroic sacrifices, but Ana suspected her father being a grey warden himself had something to do with her obsession as well.

As promised, Neriah followed her dictation with a series of math problems. She worked well but slowly, often relying on her fingers to make simple calculations. Ana encouraged her as much as she could, but changing a stubborn eight-year-old’s opinion on mathematics proved to be a difficult challenge. But she often wondered if she should be trying to change her daughter's mind at all. Perhaps Neriah only needed more time to work it out on her own.

“You're doing well, snowflake.” Neriah's smile brightened the room. “I'll buy you some fruits on the way home.”

* * *

Ana headed to the clinic after lunch, leaving Neriah in the care of her friend's parents. Darktown was its usual pit of misery. Men, women and children of all ages sleeping in the dirt, barely scraping by. Most of them Fereldan refugees like she was. She felt sorry for these people. It wasn't fair. Fleeing the Blight, leaving everything behind only to end up living in a dump. This was no life. All things considered, she had been lucky to find a place in the Alienage, no matter how small it was.

Anders greeted her with a peck on the cheek. “No offence, but you look like shit,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

“Between work and Riah's early rising, it's a miracle I slept at all.”

“I remember when you were her age. Always waking me up in the middle of the night because you had a little bad dream.” He gave her nose a gentle poke with his finger.

“Not my fault if a certain blond mage enjoyed making up terrifying stories about ghosts stealing socks to feed monsters living in the walls.”

He chuckled. “Those rumours were for the templars’ benefits. I never imagined they would reach the ears of young impressionable apprentices.”

“That’s how rumours work, you jerk. They spread!” She punctuated her scolding with a light slap to the back of his head. “You deserved every bit of misery I dropped on you.”

“I think I more than made up for it with all those nights staying up to comfort you. Remind me, how long did you have nightmares?”

“I still have nightmares,” she responded with a blank expression. The ghost thieves had long been replaced with visions of her friends choking on their own blood after Kinloch Hold was overrun by abominations. But the fact remained, for as long as she could remember, she had never had a peaceful night of sleep.

He gave her a compassionate look. “If you need the afternoon off, just tell me.”

“I don't even think I’d be able to rest if I went home. So many things to do…” Washing Neriah’s lovely blue dress would be a good start. “Besides, you look a lot worse than I do.”

He yawned as if to prove her point. “I was out all night, helping a kid get out of this blasted city.”

“The Orlesian boy? I remember him, he seemed sweet. How did it go?”

Anders grimaced as the memories of his night came rushing back to him. “We almost got caught by a templar patrol, but we made it.”

Ana's brows furrowed. “I thought you had gotten your hands on their patrol routes?”

“New recruits, they were late.”

“Andraste’s stinking shit! I should have been there with you.”

She could have been on lookout. She could have scouted ahead for dangers. She could have helped fight potential threats.

“Actually, I think the fewer we were, the better. It's a lot easier to sneak past these idiots if there are only two of us.”

“If you say so,” she responded with a shrug, not entirely convinced by his argument.

A woman with a young child at her side appeared at door. “Pardon me,” she said with a trace of panic in her voice. “My son fell down while running and burned his hand on the campfire.” She gave the little boy a small push forward. His eyes were still puffy and red-rimmed from crying, suggesting his injury to be very recent. “If there's anything any of you can do…”

“Of course.” Ana approached the child, kneeling in front of him to give him a comforting smile. “What's your name?” she asked him with kindness.

He sniffled loudly. “Robbie.”

“Can I take a look at your hand, Robbie?”

He answered with a short nod and extended his hand toward her. Ana took a closer look at his injury. It wasn't so bad, nothing a balm wouldn't heal. But she knew the impatience of children all too well.

“Did you fall down while playing?” she asked him as she started casting a minor healing spell.

“Yes,” he gasped, his eyes stuck on the light glowing between their hands.

She smiled. “I have a daughter about your age. She gets into all kinds of troubles too.”

When the light died out and Ana pulled away from him, the nasty burn on the palm of his hand had vanished. He looked at the smooth skin with bewilderment, caressing it with the tip of his fingers. 

“Thank you, err- Thank you,” his mother sobbed faintly, stammering on what to call the elf who just helped her son.

As the two of them walked out of the clinic, Ana made the boy promise to be more careful in the future. He nodded with confidence, a broad smile on his face.

The veil stirred around her as the spirit inside Anders started getting restless, something that usually occurred when he sensed trouble. She looked around, expecting a group of Carta thugs or worse, templars. Instead, her eyes landed on Alistair. He stood on the threshold, not quite in, not quite out. She had heard the expression before,  _ a face telling a story_. His did not tell a good one. His left eye was swollen, his skin was more purple than its usual tawny shade, and he had dried blood clinging to his nose and lips.

His good eye met her gaze and she offered him a reassuring smile. He took a step back, however, as if he had not expected her to acknowledge his presence and looked around himself nervously. She quickly shortened the distance between them before he could decide to run.

“Why don't you come in?” she asked him softly.

“Is this- I was told-” His voice sounded strange, croaky, as if every breath brought him immense pain. “I should go.”

“Looking at you, I would say you've come to the right place.”

“Your friend doesn't seem to like me much,” he muttered hoarsely, alcohol on his breath, pointing his chin at Anders who was glaring at them from the other side of the room.

Ana stuck her tongue out to her fellow mage. Anders shook his head, rolling his eyes as he turned back towards his own patient, a pregnant woman who had come for a checkup.

“It's trouble he doesn't like,” she explained to Alistair. “You're not looking for trouble, are you?” He shook his head slowly, almost imperceptibly, and a warm smile grew across her lips. “Good.”

Taking him by the arm, Ana guided him towards the back of the room where Anders had hanged a sheet to create a private corner. She closed the makeshift curtain and motioned for Alistair to sit on the creaking table they used for consultations.

“Take your shirt off.”

He coughed painfully. “What?”

“I believe you've got some broken ribs, but I need to examine you to see where and make sure there aren't any additional damage.” She paused, considering the situation. “If you need help undressing, I can-”

An adorable blush appeared across his face. “No, no, it's fine.”

Alistair let out a few groans as he slowly undressed, gritting his teeth to get through the pain. His body was shaped like a comfy pillow, she thought, and if it weren't for the rainbow of bruises decorating his left side, she might have wanted to rest her head against it. 

The red in his cheeks deepened, spreading all the way down to his chest as he caught her staring at him. Getting a hold of herself, she ran her hands over the bruised area with a gentle touch. Alistair winced as she pressed lightly to feel the bones. She found a tender spot, confirming her suspicion.

“Good news is you only seem to have a broken rib, but no other major injuries.”

“And the bad news?”

“You can wait a week or two for it to heal on its own, or I can heal it with magic, but it’s going to hurt. A lot.” 

He frowned. “It's never hurt before when Wynne does it.”

“Wynne is old and more experienced than I am. And she wasn't trained in a sewer.”

Despite the pain, a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “You're not making a very good case for yourself,” he told her.

In the Circle, she had never really focused her efforts on creation spells, always preferring offensive spells to them. It had only been after Anders had offered her a place at his side that she had bothered learning the skill. Maybe Alistair was right. Healing broken bones can be a delicate procedure, especially so close to vital organs. She had done it before, but not without supervision. 

“I could ask Anders to do it if you'd prefer,” she offered.

“No, I- Sorry, I didn't mean to imply you couldn't do it.”

She handed him a small wooden rod. “Lie down on the table and bite this.”

Alistair did as she had asked and lied down, grunting at the pain shooting through his body. He put the rod between his teeth and, after taking a few deep breaths, nodded his approval. Ana placed her hands over his chest. She closed her eyes and summoned a spirit from the Fade as Anders had taught her. She felt it grow on the tips of her fingers before it bathed them in a warm light. She guided the spirit toward Alistair's injury, bidding it to repair the broken bone. Alistair writhed in pain, biting hard on the rod. She willed her mind to ignore his cries, to focus instead on the spell. She couldn't falter now. Her magic was already weakening.

The light gradually faded until her small hands hovering over his naked chest were all that remained. Ana slumped down on a nearby crate to catch her breath. The spell had almost drained her completely.

Alistair rose to sit on the edge of the table. “Are you all right?” he asked, worry written all over his face.

“Are you?” she asked him back between two ragged breaths. He was her patient, after all. His health mattered more than hers.

He nodded. “A lot better. Thanks to you.”

“Good.” She smiled. “Let’s take care of your face now, shall we?”

“I- It's fine, really. You shouldn't- You've already done more than enough. I-”

“I don't have enough mana left in me to magically heal your face,” she admitted. “But I still have hands. I can prepare a poultice.”

The clinic was running low on supplies. Some of the regular ingredients they used in their treatments were getting scarce and expensive. She and Anders worked for free, surviving on charity alone. Him more so than her. At least, she had a couple of paying jobs on the side to support her family. How he managed to make ends meet was beyond her comprehension. Donations from Hawke, perhaps. Maker knew how generous their friend had become after the loss of his family.

Still, they couldn't afford half of the stuff required to brew high-quality potions. But they didn’t need anything fancy, they only needed something that worked. Ana improvised a poultice with whatever she could get her hands on. She warmed up some vinegar and started mixing some dried sage and elfroot leaves together.

“What happened to you, anyway? Did you fall down some stairs?” she asked playfully as he slipped his shirt back on.

His injuries didn't really match those of a fall, but considering his drinking habits, it was still a plausible explanation.

“I, err, I was supposed to meet some people for a job, but I-” He looked away from her and cleared his throat. “I overslept.”

Ana remained silent. It didn't take a genius to guess what happened next. This was Kirkwall. People answered broken deals with broken bones. 

“A bunch of them were waiting for me downstairs when I woke up.”

She dipped a towel in clean water to wash his face. He let out a small hiss when the cold piece of cloth came into contact with his injuries. 

“Sorry,” she mumbled, both for the discomfort she had just caused him and what these men had done to him.

She then gently spread a small coat of oil over his face to prevent her poultice from sticking to his skin.

“Don't be. I only have myself to blame for this.” 

Ana brought the thick mixture closer to him. Alistair’s nose scrunched up as the strong smell of vinegar reached his senses.

“What? I don't smell like your mother anymore?” she teased him.

Alistair stiffened. “What?”

“Something you said last night.  _ ‘You smell like mother,’_” she said, imitating his drunken speech pattern.

“I, err, I wouldn't know. I never knew her.”

“Oh… That makes two of us, then.”

She applied the salve over his face in small, delicate touches, careful not to cause him more harm.

“How old were you when…” He paused, likely pondering whether his question was appropriate or not. “When they took you?”

“I was six when they took me to the Tower,” she answered flatly. “But the Templars ripped me from my family long before that.” His brows knitted together into a frown. “I grew up in an orphanage,” she clarified.

“Oh…”

According to her Circle file, she had been born right here, in Kirkwall. In the Gallows, to be more specific. She had learned it from Day, who had gotten his hands on a copy of her file after the Blight. One of the perks of saving the world, she guessed. That was how they had found where Neriah was being kept. Born of an illicit union between two mages and taken to a Chantry orphanage only to one day end up in a Circle again. That was the story of her life, and it could have been the story of their daughter's life had Day never taken Ana to Kirkwall to meet her.

She had barely laid eyes on the then five-year-old that she had practically begged him to snatch her away from that place. Ana would never allow history to repeat itself, not as long as she breathed. He had been reluctant, at first, unwilling to antagonize an organization as powerful as the Chantry. But he had listened to her plea and had accepted to help. 

He had contacts in the Chantry that had facilitated Neriah's adoption. The Revered Mother in charge of the orphanage had not been pleased to let the child go. Ana wondered sometimes how she would react were she to learn Daylen Amell wasn't the child's actual caretaker. Not well, she suspected.

Life in the Alienage was harsh for a single elven mother and her human child, but she never regretted making that decision. Especially in light of the disturbing rumours concerning Knight-Commander Meredith's treatment of mages. So far, Neriah had not shown any signs of magic, but with her lineage, it was only a matter of time before she did.

Ana covered Alistair's injuries with a thin piece of cloth and secured it around his face with a bandage. “You’re not going to win any hearts today, but it's better than letting it remain untreated.” She looked at him thoroughly, evaluating her work. Satisfied, she smiled and started scooping the leftovers from the bowl to place it in a small jar. “Apply some of this over your bruises every three hours for a day. And try to stay off the ale to avoid any unnecessary complications.”

He stared at the small container for a few seconds. He didn’t move to take it from her and simply said, “I- I can't pay for it.”

“It's a good thing we're not doing this for the money, then.” She placed the jar in the palm of his hand, offering him a warm smile.

“Thank you.”

“Your bed at the Hanged Man has been paid up until the end of the month,” she told him. “You should take advantage of that and rest for a while.”

He looked down at his hands and muttered, “You shouldn't have done that.”

“I didn't. My friend, Hawke, did.”

His brows drew together in confusion. “Is that the strong-looking man from last night?” he asked. “I remember a huge, all-muscles man who looked a little bit like… like Amell.” He spat the name like venom.

Hawke didn't look that much like Day, even though she knew them to be somehow related. She knew better than to mention it in front of Alistair, however. She understood why he despised him so much. She had heard his drunken rantings more than once before. It was a sad story, one she did not wish on anyone. At first, she had refused to believe Day was capable of betraying a friend's trust so easily. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized her old friend had always been a bit of a jerk. Jowan could attest to that.

“You must have heard of Hawke before. He helped the city guard fight off a group of raiders on the Wounded Coast last week.”

They had toasted their victory at the Hanged Man afterwards. Hawke had bought everyone a few rounds that night - to the happiness of the tavern’s drunken crowd.

“Why are you so good to me?” Alistair asked her after a brief moment of comfortable silence. “I've never done anything to deserve so much kindness from you.”

“You’ve never done anything to deserve disdain either.”

“I can't remember everything, but I'm fairly sure I have.”

She chuckled softly. It was true, his behaviour had left a lot to be desired so far. “Then maybe I just don't want you passing out on my doorstep again,” she told him. “Or maybe I believe it's not too late for you to get better. The Alistair I met four years ago was a good man.”

He looked away from her. Again. “I'm not sure I can be that man again.”

“Then become someone else, someone even better.”

“It's not that easy.”

“Just-” She squeezed his hand with compassion. “Be careful, all right.”

He said nothing for a moment, only staring into her eyes as if searching for the answer to some unspoken question. Much to her surprise, he didn't lower his gaze this time.

“I'll try,” he whispered, squeezing her hand back.

She smiled. “Good.”

Someone cleared their throat behind her. Alistair's hand snapped away from hers as fast as if she were carrying the Blight. She turned around to give the intruder a dirty look only to come face to face with Anders’ own disapproving glare.

“I'm going to need your help with a patient,” he demanded, his tone cold and sharp.

Alistair rose to his feet. “I should go. Thank you again,” he said, his eyes once again avoiding hers. “For everything.”

“I’ll come by the Hanged Man in a few days to check up on you,” she told him as he started walking away from them.

She watched him disappear around the muddy corners of Darktown. Beside her, Anders sighed loudly.

“What?” she snapped.

He shook his head. “You shouldn’t get too attached to him.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” She glowered at him. “He's a drunk so we shouldn't help him?” 

“That's not what I meant-”

“Alistair is a good man and a friend,” she cut him off. “With a little help, I know he can recover.”

“Of this, I have no doubt.” He put his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. “But this man is a grey warden. There are things-” He cut himself short, likely pondering whether or not he should reveal the Wardens’ secrets to her. “Being a grey warden is a death sentence, and you can't cure death, Ana.”

“What do you mean a death sentence?”

“I can't get into any details, but what the Wardens do to stop the Blight, it's not pretty.” Her eyes grew wide at the revelation. “You're my little sister. I don't want you to get hurt because of this.”

“But he's not  _ with _ the Wardens anymore,” she argued. “He left. Like you did.”

His face took on an expression of distaste, his eyes lost in some painful memory. “You can never truly leave that life behind, Ana.”

She wasn't sure what he meant by that. And she wasn't sure she wanted to know what he meant. It was clear that whatever happened to him during his stay with the Wardens still caused him great pain. Could Alistair’s current condition have more to do with that than betrayal and broken friendships?

“I’m still going to help,” she declared. “He needs a friend right now, more than anything else. I can’t turn my back on him. _You_ taught me how important it is to help others the day I came here.”

Anders smiled sadly. “I should have known there would be no changing your mind.”

“I'll be fine. You don't need to worry about me.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After recovering from his injuries, Alistair starts doing some odd job to earn a few coins.
> 
>  **tw:** mentions of past abuse, mentions of cruelty against animals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!
> 
> I am so sorry it took so long to finish writing this chapter. I suffered from a bit of writer's block a few months ago and then I've been somewhat busy. I think that moving forward, I might try to write shorter chapters in order to get them out faster? Idk, we'll see.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this new chapter :)

After a month of barely being able to scrape by, Alistair had managed to save up a few coins. Not a lot, but enough to finally eat a decent meal and pay for a tankard of ale or two.

As it turned out, the Chantry board was plastered with work nobody wanted to do. Mercenaries were after adventures and excitement, not helping old ladies with their shopping. So a lot of these odd jobs often went unanswered for weeks, or even months, if someone picked them up at all. All Alistair had to do was drag his arse up the massive staircase from Lowtown to Hightown and he might finally earn some decent money for a change. This feat that had been a lot harder for him than you might think.

He had then spent the week that had followed his trek to the Chantry board searching for an old lady's lost cat. A pointless task, he'd been told. Kirkwall was a large city and desperate beggars were rumoured to capture stray animals for their meat. In the end, Alistair had not found the missing cat, but he had come across a litter of kittens abandoned near a sewer gate. So he had given one of them to the old lady. It would not replace her dear Whiskers, but she had nonetheless welcomed her new little companion with open arms before giving Alistair a generous reward for his help. He hadn't felt like he deserved that money — he had not completed the job after all — but he had been too hungry to refuse it.

That was how he had ended up with four kittens sleeping in a small wooden box beside him. The Hanged Man's owner had agreed to keep one of them as a mouser in exchange for a week of free lodging, but only if Alistair found a way to get rid of the other three. “This is a tavern, not an animal shelter,” he had said. Alistair didn't want to dump the poor little fellas back where he had found them, however. They deserved better than dying alone in the cold — or worse, becoming someone’s meal. So he had kept them and spent a third of the old woman's reward on goat milk.

“Oh, the pretty little kitties!”

Alistair recognized Ana's gentle voice immediately and before he knew it, she was crouched next to him, peering down at the kittens.

He stared at her dumbfounded, blinking rapidly. “What are you doing here?” he asked. It wasn't Tuesday, he was sure of that. He would have put on a somewhat cleaner shirt if it were.

“Hello to you too,” she chided him with a smile as she ran a finger over the soft fur of one of the mewling kittens. She cooed at it like it was a baby and Alistair couldn’t help but smile at the adorable display.

“We had a cat like this in the tower when I was a child,” she mused. “He got possessed by a demon one day and that was the end of it. No more animals allowed.”

Sadness washed over her face at the memory and it occurred to him that maybe she could help him get rid of the little beasts — if she was willing to.

“Do you want one?” he offered. “I can't keep them and I thought, maybe, you'd want one. It would make a great pet for your daughter.”

She winced. Not quite the reaction he had expected. “I don't know… I can’t really afford to feed another mouth,” she sighed hesitantly, her fingers still stroking the small kitten.

“They don’t eat much at present,” Alistair argued. “And they’ll start hunting vermin as they grow older. They’ll basically take care of themselves.”

“I guess it could get rid of the Alienage's rat problem.”

“So, does that mean you'll take one?” he insisted sweetly. “I really want to find them good homes. I don't want to throw them back on the streets.”

Guilting her into keeping one was a dirty move, he knew that and felt terrible about it, but it was the truth. He dreaded the thought of abandoning these little fellows to the cruelty of the streets of Kirkwall.

“Sure, I'll take one off your hands if the rest of the Alienage agrees to help me feed it,” she said with a smile after he'd resorted to pleading with puppy eyes. “How many more still need a home?”

“One of them is staying here. The others are all up for grabs.”

“I'll ask around. I know I have some friends who might be interested.”

“Great!”

Ana kept stroking the animal’s soft fur. She had picked up the fluffiest one from the box, a striped tri-coloured cat with gorgeous blue eyes. An old seamstress in Redcliffe had once told Alistair that a coat with three colours always meant the cat was female. He wondered if that were true. For all he knew, it was all a bunch of old ladies’ superstitious hogwash. Still, the woman had been right about a great many things, and it was still too early to tell anyway.

“So…” he trailed off, looking at Ana like she was a riddle he couldn’t solve. “What brings you here on this not-Tuesday afternoon?”

“I was wondering if you had found work for the day. I need help with a thing.”

His eyes narrowed into slits. “What kind of thing?”

“Nothing fancy. Moving a piece of furniture from Hightown to the Alienage,” she said, her face contorting into an awkward smile.

“Hightown?”

“I've got a friend who lives there," she explained sheepishly. “I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.”

“I guess I've got nothing better to do.”

Alistair left his kittens with one of the waitresses, a plump older woman who was always kind to him, and followed Ana out of the door. She guided him through the streets of Lowtown towards the docks.

He frowned. “I’m pretty sure Hightown is the other way around,” he said, pointing at the staircase, barely visible behind the tall buildings.

“I know. We're picking up someone else first. Even with those huggers, I can't expect you to carry such a heavy weight all by yourself.” She chuckled, squeezing his bicep with her small hands. “And I wouldn't be of much help with my noodle arms.”

“I think your arms look nice,” Alistair blurted out, his face taking a crimson shade almost instantly. “I mean you must be quite strong too, carrying trays of drinks and food all day long.”

She smiled, a light blush appearing across her cheeks. “I'm afraid it's going to be a lot heavier than a tray of drinks.”

She took him to a far corner of Lowtown, to a dark alley near the docks where the homeless gathered. Alistair had spent a few nights there in the years since he'd arrived in Kirkwall. It was cold and damp, although the high walls protected the vagrants from the harsh southern wind.

They stopped in front of a dishevelled man who was sleeping on the ground, a thin, half-torn blanket covering his shoulders. Ana kicked his shins lightly. The man jumped up, a dagger in hand, ready to strike at his assailants. Alistair instinctively tried to put himself between Ana and the man, but she raised a hand to stop him. The man glared at them for a few seconds with a pair of bloodshot eyes until recognition set in.

“Surana?” he growled, putting his dagger away as he rose to his feet.

“I've got a job for you if you want the money,” Ana declared with unflinching calm.

“What kinda job?”

“The easy kind,” she answered. “It won't get you in trouble.”

The man glared at her as if she had just asked him to jump off one of the cliffs overlooking the harbour.

“I need people to help me move a piece of furniture,” she explained to him.

He groaned again. “Throw in one of your potions and we've got a deal.”

Ana shrugged with absolute indifference. “Sure, I can spare a little elfroot.”

“Who's your new friend?” he asked, eyeing Alistair suspiciously.

“Of course, where are my manners? Samson, this is Alistair. Alistair, this is Samson.”

Alistair shook the man’s hand, glowering at him with suspicion. He had seen him before, in the streets, begging for coin, begging for lyrium. How did Ana come to know a washed-up templar? And how much did she actually know about the man?

They promptly made their way up the steep stairway, with Samson walking a few paces in front of them. He was is surprisingly good shape considering his condition. Alistair was impressed.

“How well do you know this man?” he asked Ana, his voice low enough that he wouldn't draw the other man's attention.

She shrugged. “Well enough, I suppose.” Her brows furrowed into a suspicious frown. “Why?”

“He's a templar!” Alistair snapped in a whisper.

Her lips curled up slightly in one corner. “ _Former_ templar,” she clarified.

“Do you think it makes a difference? If anything, he would sell you out in a heartbeat if it meant he could get his rations of lyrium back.”

She came to a halt with a deep sigh, her hands reaching up to massage her temples. “I've known Samson for years. He's a good man.”

“He is a templar,” Alistair repeated more calmly.

“ _Former_ templar. And so are you, yet you don't hear any of us whine about it.”

He took a step back, blinking in surprise. “How did you—?”

“I've been surrounded by templars my entire life. Didn’t you think I could recognize that stance anywhere?”

“I might be templar-trained,” he pouted, “but I never actually took my vows.” Only because Duncan intervened on his behalf, he reminded himself. Not everyone could be as lucky as he had been.

“Look, if you just talked to him, you might learn that you two have a lot more in common than you realize.”

“Like what?”

“Well, right now I’d say you’re both rather stubborn.

“I’m not—! All right, maybe a little,” he admitted.

“Look, Samson is a good man,” she continued. “He's been helping mages for years while he was still in the Circle and even though that's why he ended up on the streets, he’s still trying to help.”

“I suppose I am being a little harsh.”

“Just trust me, all right.”

She put her hand on his arm in a comforting gesture and smiled at him. It was such a sweet smile that he felt his heart tighten in his chest.

Samson’s gravelly voice boomed from a few feet away, pulling him out of his reverie. “If you two could stop staring at each other longingly and hurry the fuck up so we could get this over with, it would be much appreciated!”

Ana’s cheeks turned a bright shade of pink. Set on her freckled face, it was the most adorable colour he had ever seen, and what a pretty face that was… Alistair could feel his own skin burn all the way to the tip of his ears, butterflies filling his stomach. She looked away from him — thank the Maker or he would have combusted on the spot — and set her eyes on the old templar.

“Why?” she yelled back. “You’ve got somewhere better to be?”

She hopped up the stairs to catch up with him. Alistair watched them banter back and forth all the way to the top. They teased each other like a pair of children. Ana's laugh was bright and warm. It filled his heart with so much sunshine he wished he could keep it in a little music box and listen to it every time he felt like the sky was falling down on him — which had been a lot more often than he would have liked lately. Maker’s breath, if only he could be worthy of her.

The three of them stopped in front of a door adorned with a couple of blazoned shields. Alistair froze. He recognized the heraldry. Daylen had doodled it on the corner of a map once. It was the Amell family crest. Why in the world would Ana take him there?

His panic intensified as a familiar face led them inside the estate.

“Mistress Surana, we've been expecting you,” Bodahn Feddic announced in a jolly tone.

It couldn't be a coincidence. Bodahn here? The Amell crest? But Ana knew how he felt about the Warden. She knew how much he hated the man. She wouldn't have brought him to this place if there was even a tiny chance he might be here as well. But why wouldn’t she? She and Daylen were old friends, Alistair had known it from the start. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't know this woman all that well.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair spotted a huge mabari hound charging at them unexpectedly. Before any of them could move a finger, the dog had tackled Ana to the ground to proceed to lick her face. She laughed loudly as his tongue tickled her nose and mouth.

“I’m happy to see you too, Car,” she yelped. “Now, get off, please.”

The dog obeyed her, his tail still wagging with excitement. Ana rose to her knees and gave him a friendly pat on the head before wiping the drool off her face with the sleeve of her dress. The mabari wasn’t Amell’s companion, Messere Noodle. He was much bigger and his fur was a darker shade of brown with large black spots on the tail end of his body.

That fact alleviated the sinking feeling that had started to grow within his stomach a little somehow. Still, it didn’t explain Bodahn’s presence here. As if on cue, the dwarf’s eyes finally landed on Alistair who suddenly found the dirt under his fingernails incredibly distracting.

“I'll just… get Master Hawke for you,” Bodahn announced before exiting the room.

It didn't take long for him to return with a tall, brawny man who looked somewhat familiar. Hawke — as was apparently his name — pulled Ana into a strong embrace that rivalled his mabari’s. She returned his hug with a lot of affection.

“Follow me,” he said, gesturing towards the door he’d just come from. “It's in the back." 

He led them towards a large workshop where they found a wooden bed standing proudly in its centre. It was a somewhat simple platform bed, but someone had taken the time to carve elegant designs along the edges — little mabaris running in a forest with birds flying over their heads. But most importantly, it was big, or at least it was compared to Ana's petite stature.

“Oh, Alwyn…” she gasped, her eyes shining with joy. “It's perfect!”

She _squealed_ like a child, bouncing on her feet excitedly, much to everyone’s astonishment. Hawke smiled softly, watching her with seeming melancholy. Alistair, on the other hand, was rather dubious.

“Is that what you want us to move to your place?” he wondered. “I'm not sure it's going to fit inside your home, let alone through the door.”

Samson’s jaw had dropped to the floor when he’d realized _this_ was what Ana wanted them to drag all the way to Lowtown. “I'm starting to regret accepting to help you.”

“We took measurements before I started working on it,” Hawke reassured them. “It's going to fit perfectly.”

“You made this from scratch?” Alistair whistled, impressed with the workmanship

He shrugged. “I used to do a lot of manual work back in Lothering, before the Blight.”

“Is that how you became so big and strong?” Ana cooed, pinching the man’s impossibly large arms.

“The things I do for that woman,” Samson groaned. “Let's just get this over with.”

“Please, tell me you’re going to help too,” Alistair begged Hawke.

The man chuckled and patted him on the shoulder, not unlike how Amell had done before they had walked into the throne room during the Landsmeet. _“Relax,”_ he had said. _“Everything’s going to be all right, buddy.”_

_“Everything’s going to be all right.” My arse!_

Transporting the bed to the Alienage took them hours. Hours during which all three men sweated like greased nugs roasting slowly under the sun. Ana was nearby, carrying their water supply, Hawke’s mabari in tow. The two of them weren’t lazing around while the men did all the grunt work, far from it. They were dispatching bandits with some impressive skills and rapidity. Most of the time, she didn’t even need to use her magic. Hitting these thugs on the head with her staff and cutting their legs with the sharp blade at the end of it seemed to be enough to stop the attacks on their little convoy.

As Hawke had predicted, the bed fitted perfectly through the doors. Getting it up the stairs to the second floor and Ana’s apartment was a bit trickier, but they managed with the help of a few other residents.

Samson left as soon as Ana handed him his payment, coupled with a health potion and a few herbs in a small pouch, as she had promised. Hawke soon followed, stating that he had to get ready for a trip to the Bone Pit, whatever that meant. Alistair was about to do the same when Ana grabbed him by the arm. She looked at him, a silent plea written in those big silver eyes of hers.

“Neriah and I are going to decorate the headboard and we could use a third set of hands,” she explained to him with a coy smile.

“I'm afraid I’m not much of an artist.”

“Neither am I. Neriah is the creative one among us.”

“I guess she must take after her father, then.”

She tensed at his words and he immediately cursed his mouth for being so foolish. This seemed to be a delicate subject. Alistair had never met the man and had often wondered about him. He had even assumed at some point, that Ana had adopted Neriah. The Blight had left a lot of orphans in its wake, after all. But the girl had her mother’s eyes, and that uncanny silverite grey could not have come from anyone else. The father, however, remained a mystery to him, and he could think of a hundred reasons for his absence, none of them good ones.

“Let's just say he's not around and leave it at that,” she explained through gritted teeth as if she could read his thoughts.

A heavy silence fell over the room, the pounding of his heart in his ears a deafening sound in comparison.

“All right, I guess it could be fun,” he agreed as a way to relieve the tension. “What are we painting?”

Ana immediately beamed. “I've got blue and yellow paints. We were thinking about a night sky full of stars? Maybe some grass if we can mix these colours into a decent green?”

Stars? He could do stars. He smiled. “That sounds easy enough.” 

They were starting to prepare little bowls of paints when the door slammed wide open. Ana’s daughter barged in, her little pink dress already caked with mud. Ana winced for a brief moment at the sight.

“Is it here?”

“It is!” Ana replied, just as excited as her daughter was.

The girl’s eyes suddenly fell on Alistair who was sitting in a corner, pouring blue paint in a bowl. Her brows furrowed.

Ana grinned. “You remember Alistair, don't you?”

“The garbage man.”

“Riah!” she scolded her before turning back towards him. “Please, forgive her, she's eight and she likes to drive people up the wall sometimes.” She gave Neriah a pointed look. “He's going to help us paint the headboard unless you have a problem with that?”

She shrugged and pouted in that adorable way only children could. “It's _your_ bed.”

They all sat on the bed in front of the headboard and started applying wide strokes of blue paint all over it. It didn’t seem so big all of a sudden, with three people crammed up together. Alistair shivered every time Ana’s hand brushed his, or when she would tiredly shift her weight to get into a more comfortable position.

“Is it true you're a grey warden?” Neriah asked after they’d been spreading paint over the headboard for a while.

“Neriah,” Ana sighed, giving her daughter a pointed look.

“No, it's all right. To answer your question, young lady, I _was_ a grey warden, but I left the Order.”

Her little face scrunched up in confusion. “Why?”

Alistair fidgeted nervously. “Er— Conflict of interest.”

“About what?”

A lump was starting to form in his throat. “It's a long story.”

“Is that why you're here and not in the Deep Roads, saving the world?” she kept going.

“I— yes.”

Sensing Alistair’s discomfort, Ana tried to intervene again, “Neriah, please.”

“My father is a grey warden too, that's why we never see him.”

“Neriah…” It was now her turn to look uncomfortable.

Alistair raised an eyebrow, giving her a questioning look. “Is that so?”

She tensed, her face contorting into a grimace as she tried to avoid his gaze.

“Do you know any good Warden stories?” the little girl continued.

“Neriah, come on.”

He reached out to grab Ana’s hand and gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s really no bother,” he told her softly. 

He wasn’t sure whether she would approve of him telling her young daughter stories of nightmarish monsters lurking in the dark and, quite frankly, he wasn’t particularly eager to relive those tales. So he told them another kind of stories instead. He told them about the day his unit had held an impromptu eating contest. He explained that Grey Wardens often ate more than regular people for reasons he wasn’t allowed to talk about and that the tavern they had been staying in had prepared a buffet in their honour that day.

“Oh, like uncle Anders! He eats like a bear!”

“Right.”

Alistair had felt the corruption coursing through the healer’s blood the day they’d met in the clinic. He wondered if either of them knew their friend was a Grey Warden renegade.

“Did you win?” Ana asked him with a smile.

“Nobody won. Duncan, our Commander, put a stop to it before we emptied the poor innkeeper’s entire food stock. It was probably for the best.”

Thinking about Duncan and his late friends in the Wardens still hurt, but it was a different kind of pain from what he had felt during the Blight. His grief had transformed into shame and self-hatred. He had failed his mentor. He had failed the Wardens. He had failed his country.

He swallowed hard to regain his composure. “Some of us did get sick and almost choked from trying to stuff too many sausages at once into our mouths,” he added, putting on a forced smile.

“It’s all about going in slowly and taking deep breaths,” Ana explained.

“Have you participated in a lot of eating contests?”

She snorted. “I guess you could call it that.”

Alistair spent the rest of the afternoon with them, painting and sharing funny anecdotes. Ana also chimed in, revealing some of the childish pranks she pulled in the Circle — the tamer ones anyway as she didn't want to give Neriah any wrong ideas. 

“I'm cute,” she pointed out when he asked how she managed to get away with any of this. “Making sad puppy eyes didn't always work, but it got me out of trouble often enough.” 

The two of them continued talking long after Neriah had fallen asleep on the edge of the bed, blue paint now keeping company to the mud stains on her pink dress. Alistair did most of the talking, confiding in her. He wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to unpack his entire life story to her, but Ana listened to him with a genuine interest, asking questions whenever a subject piqued her curiosity. They discussed his childhood, mostly, growing up in Eamon's custody. The secret bastard son of King Maric.

“That's horrible,” she gasped as he got to the point where he had to sleep in the stables.

He shrugged. “The Arlessa just didn’t like having me around,” he told her as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“And the Arl allowed it? Alistair, no matter how you spin it, it’s not right.” Her face crumpled. “You were a child. Children shouldn't have to suffer for the whims of adults,” she added with unrestrained bitterness. “Children should never have to suffer for anything.”

Her eyes wandered over to her daughter who was still sleeping soundly. The subject seemed to upset her more than it did him and he suddenly remembered that she was a former Circle mage. Maker only knew what she had endured in that tower.

“It's all right,” he said, reaching out to take her hand in his. “I was sent to the monastery not long afterwards, anyway. The Templars had much better beds,” he joked.

She let out a strained chuckle. “How is that supposed to be any better?”

“Big beds you can jump on during pillow fights. What more could a ten-year-old boy need?”

She let out a brief hearty laugh, cutting herself short when Neriah stirred in her sleep.

They fell into a comfortable silence, Alistair's hand still holding onto hers. The sweetness of her smile and the warmth of her eyes made his heart race in his chest. Had things been different, maybe… But he was a disgraced warden and he didn’t deserve her, or her kindness.

He looked away, letting go of her hand. “It's getting late, I think I should go,” he said, almost unable to keep his voice steady.

Ana accompanied him all the way to the Alienage's exit. _'Escorted'_ might be a better word for it considering the dirty looks he kept receiving from the other elves. Alistair couldn't blame them. He'd heard rumours of humans kidnapping elven children into slavery. Or doing worse to them. He'd be suspicious too if one of those people — and a known drunkard to boot — was seen wandering around their neighbourhood at night. 

“Don't think I don't know what you were trying to do, keeping me away from the tavern.”

Ana’s smile spread wide across her face. “I dare you to tell me you didn't have fun today.”

His eyes found her gaze. She had sharp, sparkling eyes that rivalled the moon shining in the sky behind them. And as he looked into them, he could feel her search his soul for something buried so deep he thought he’d lost it forever. Was that _happiness_ he felt?

“All right,” he admitted. “Maybe I did have some fun.”

She pulled him into an impulsive hug. He hesitated for a few seconds, surprised by the sudden gesture, before wrapping his arms around her. He hadn’t been held like this since — Maker, he couldn’t even remember if he had ever been held like this before.

“Goodnight, Alistair.”

“Goodnight.”

He watched her disappear into the building before he headed back to the Hanged Man for a good night's rest. That was what he told himself, anyway, that he'd pick up his kittens and go straight to bed. But he walked in in the middle of happy hour, and a round or two had never hurt anyone.


End file.
